


Strange Harvest (Falling Into Place Part One)

by spuffyduds



Series: Falling Into Place [1]
Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: First Kiss, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-24
Updated: 2010-01-24
Packaged: 2017-10-06 16:05:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/55442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spuffyduds/pseuds/spuffyduds
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stinky vegetables, very small sickles, and those darn alien rituals.  Also, Spock is a sex god.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Strange Harvest (Falling Into Place Part One)

**Author's Note:**

> I've seen people posting that they wish the (awesome!) Spock/Uhura movie pairing didn't get handwaved into non-existence so often in Kirk/Spock fic. So here's an attempt to work WITH that ongoing pairing. Set about a year after the end of the new movie.

"They look like screaming monkey heads," Jim says.

Spock holds up one of the fist-sized onion-ish things by its green top and considers the wrinkles on one side that, to Jim at least, inarguably form "howling mouth" and "angry eyebrows." He shrugs. (Well, he makes the tiniest motion with one shoulder. Early on, Jim ran all his movements and expressions through a mental "Spock to normal" translator, which multiplied everything by ten or so until it was an actual gesture. These days he doesn't have to bother; he's fluent in Spock-shoulder.)

"As your flights of fancy go, that one is moderately reality-based," Spock says, and goes back to reaping monkey onions.

With a tiny, tiny ceremonial silver sickle, just like Jim has, and Jim's back is _killing_ him. He's having to really struggle not to groan like an old man every time he bends. God, how long _is_ this row? He looks back and waves cheerily at the various farmers and local-government folk way back at the beginning of the row, then sneaks a sideways glance at Spock. Who seems, goddamn him, perfectly comfortable with the bending over and over and over. He probably does yoga or something with Uhura.

Jim entertains himself with bendy Uhura thoughts for a few minutes while he sickles a few more onions and drops them into the itchy burlap bag draped over his aching back. There are a couple kilos in there by now; he hopes the friendship-between-peoples ritual doesn't end with him and Spock having to eat all of them. Or _any_ of them; they kind of _smell_ like screaming monkey heads.

"So, what is Uhura up to on her leave, anyway?" he says, to keep from bitterly estimating the number of steps to the end of the row again.

"Hmmm," Spock says. "She will have had a surfeit of family time by now. I would guess that she is currently having sex with a former lover."

Jim completely misses his onion plant and comes within a couple of centimeters of taking his foot off at the ankle with the silver sickle. (And wouldn't _that_ piss Bones off. "I'm a doctor, Jim, not a druid!")

"You two--you're not--shit, I'm sorry," Jim says. And he really is--they seem, seemed terrific together. He feels stupid, too, because if he didn't notice a long relationship between two of his chief people ending, what kind of a captain is he? (And, okay, he's a little hurt that Uhura never showed up at his door for a post-breakup weepy drunken venting conversation, and that Spock never did--whatever his equivalent would be. Jim had thought they both considered him a friend by now.)

"You misunderstand," Spock says, neatly slicing off an onion, smoothly tossing it into his bag. "She and I are still most satisfactorily bonded. It's simply that neither of us is bothered by the occasional--extra activities, especially when we are parted by schedule or circumstance. Jealousy is--"

"Illogical?" Jim says. His voice is a little squeaky.

"Jealousy is for the _insecure_," Spock says, and gives him the tiniest smile.

Jim takes a deep breath. And then a couple more, because usually his galaxy-hopping life seems--not _mundane_ to him, but just his life--that's how it is. Right this second, though, "I am hacking my way through an onion field, chatting with a Vulcan _swinger_" seems very, very weird.

"And you have no insecurities," he says, finally. "Because you're some kind of a sex god?" He flashes Spock an expression which he is trying to make into his "Oh surrrrrre" smile, but it's probably not working, because Jim's imagining all sorts of pictures that make that sound completely plausible.

"I have had," Spock says, and hacks an onion free, "no complaints." And Jim's so used to his conversational pacing that he _waits_, and sure enough, Spock chucks it in his bag and adds, "Ever."

Jim just keeps his head down for the next few plants, because, Jesus. His brain is full of "no complaints" scenarios. Spock's really fucking _strong_, and flexible and unnaturally patient and...God, he'd probably be an infuriating, incredible _tease_. Spock would be holding her up against a wall, thighs wrapped around his waist, rocking into her so slowly. Or Spock would be pinning her down, long slender fingers clamped on her wrists, licking and nibbling everywhere except where she wanted it most, waiting for her to _ask_.

Jim shudders. He's really got to stop thinking about Uhura.

He straightens up, presses the heels of his hands into the small of his back and groans. "So," he says, "do _you_ ever..." and why, why, _why_ does he ask questions he doesn't want the answers to?

"Less often," Spock says. He puts the sickle up to his mouth and huffs on the blade, takes a cloth from his pocket and wipes at it. "I tend to be...very picky." He eyes Jim for a long moment, then amends, "Usually," and what the hell is _that_ supposed to mean?

Jim just stands there for a minute, looking behind him at a long line of plants and in front of him at a lot of...nothing, just grass, and he can't get that to make sense.

"Where are the onions?" he says, finally.

"We're _done_, Jim," Spock says. "With our row. With that portion of the ritual."

"That portion?" Jim says, and Spock steps closer. Puts the tips of two fingers carefully, precisely, under Jim's chin, tilts it up, and kisses him.

"Oh," Jim says, and the _oh_ opens his mouth and lets Spock in. Spock takes that invitation right up, no hanging around at the door; gets his tongue deep in Jim's mouth. There's some hooting from the onion farmers and local council folk at the other end of the field, and Spock's tongue is _warm_, so warm. Jim had always imagined it as kind of cool.

Spock steps back and looks at him. Jim manages not to grab him and pull him closer. "So," Jim says. "Ah. I missed that part of the speeches."

"You really should pay attention to the _full_ description of rituals that you agree to perform," Spock says.

"I do if I'm alone," Jim says. He can't quite keep himself from reaching out and just grabbing Spock's sleeve, just a fold of it, thumb and forefinger. "If you're with me I don't have to, I know you've got it."

Spock looks at Jim's fingers pinching his sleeve. He raises an eyebrow. "Your faith in me is...touching, Captain."

"Yeah. Well. Is that it? I mean, do we have to...does the ritual require..."

Spock comes pretty damn near to a full-on smile. Steps closer, then really close, and murmurs in Jim's ear, "Sorry to disappoint, but no. If you want anything more, Jim...you're going to have to _ask_ for it."

And then he turns and walks off down the field.

"I can still FIRE you!" Jim yells after him.

"I tremble with fear," Spock calls back over his shoulder. "Come along, Captain, we have to eat the onions now."

"Oh, _fuck_, _all_ of them?" Jim says, and runs after Spock.

\--END--


End file.
